


I Wanna Be Alone (Alone With You)

by Call_Me_Kayyyyy (Cheeky9274), Ginny_Potter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguable Coping Mechanisms, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon Compliant Until CAWS, Fanart, Hand Jobs, M/M, NSFW Art, canon typical trauma, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27574318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeky9274/pseuds/Call_Me_Kayyyyy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: “Let me get this straight.”Steve’s lips quiver in mirth and Bucky kicks him.“You want to work on your control-freak thing and my fear-of-being-controlled trauma through sex?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 39
Kudos: 206
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	I Wanna Be Alone (Alone With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I got sucked into the MRBB by mere chance but now I'm here and whew! I am happy to be. 
> 
> **Take care** with this fic because there's talk of **Canon Typical Trauma (both Bucky's and Steve's)**. It's not in depth talk but yeah. You know. Also, there are some **slurs** (said by Bucky as he remembers how things used to be). If you want me to clarify anything write to me.
> 
> Also, there's **NSFW ART EMBEDDED!**
> 
> I wanna thank [Kay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeky9274/pseuds/Call_Me_Kayyyyy), with whom I had the pleasure to work again. I was very happy to pinch hit her fanart because it is positively delicious *wiggles eyebrows*. I hope I managed to do it justice. I saw it in a moment in which I really wanted to write some bottom!Steve and it felt like destiny. Second, thank you to my beta [Lillaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillaby), which edited this masterfully and to [ Brie ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurphyAT)as well, who read it and gave some suggestions. Any remaining mistake is on me. And last but not least I want to thank the [Marvel Reverse Big Bang](https://marvelreversebigbang.tumblr.com/) mods, who organised everything and did it so with kindness and patience.
> 
> I hope you'll like this smutty-smutty thing and make sure to check out Kay's art which is so friggin' **h o t**.
> 
> Let me know what y'all think about it!

It is early morning, and they are just basking in the newborn light, the soft rays of sunshine cutting obliquely across the bed. Bucky has been awake since the world was still in a deep sleep outside and the only noise was the faint buzzing of the city that never sleeps. The cold sweat that covered his back when he jerked awake has chilled, leaving him sticky and clammy.

He managed not to wake Steve though, so that’s a win. It had been a weird evening and an even weirder night, with them kissing tentatively, trying to find a comfortable position and failing, as if they hadn’t been doin’ this for a century or so, as if they were one of those old married couples who feel compelled to take to completion their conjugal obligations because society said so. It was a bust, honestly. And they were awkward, and how can you be awkward with someone you’ve known since you were a tiny thing and ran around a neighborhood that doesn’t even exist anymore? How can you be awkward after you survived the constant danger - and thrill - of a relationship that wasn’t supposed to be, not in that time, not in that place? How can you be awkward after you got back together in a place and time so far beyond it feels made up? But they were. And it hurt a bit to realize that maybe all the pieces did not go back to what they had been as well as they thought.

It seems silly that this should bother him. Or them. It probably doesn’t bother Steve too much, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make Bucky feel bad. His smile isn’t fake when he tells him it’s okay, that it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t happen today or tomorrow or even in ten years. He doesn’t tell Bucky he loves him anyway because there’s no ‘anyway’. You don’t love a person ‘anyway’, you love ‘em because. And they don’t say ‘I love yous’ in any case, they’re not that kind of people. They literally died for each other, so that pretty much covers it. It’s just… Bucky misses how easy it was right when they found each other again. It was like riding a bike. No pun intended. Or maybe yes, pun intended, because fuck it. It felt as right as it did when he kissed Steve with his eyes shut closed, crinkly on the sides, a hand pressed on the rough table behind him in his ma’s kitchen, when everyone was outside in that piece of dirt they called a back garden to celebrate the 4th of July in ‘34.

When Bucky came back, when he crawled back from the pit he had been thrown into, fighting with his hands and his teeth like a cornered animal, they had fallen into each other like an old singer into a loved tune. Puzzle pieces, fitting back together, through the sharp corners and the angles of an existence that grated the both of them to their bare soul. And what a relief to live with Steve again, in a brownstone in Brooklyn of all places, like rich people do. It feels right to move through the kitchen and laze around on the couch and play cards. To smoke a cigarette, watch nature documentaries, read a pulp or poetry or all the cool beat stuff he missed while he was busy causing the Cuban Missile Crisis, and just _be_. 

It was swell until it wasn’t.

For some time now - he doesn’t even know when it started exactly, he doesn’t know why, and it drives him crazy because they were doing so well fuck it, and why can’t they be happy Jesus Christ, don’t they deserve it - when the night comes and the shadow crawls out of its lair, Bucky starts tensing because maybe it’s one of those nights. One of those nights in which either of them feels like suffocating. When they are scared like little kids and they get twitchy and the flight or fight mode turns on like a streetlight in rush hour traffic. It’s been weeks and they cannot seem to find a balance. Sometimes it’s him, sometimes it’s Steve. Yesterday it was him, but next time? When it’s one of those nights, they just... 

“Mornin’,” Steve mumbles, limbs shifting languid under the thick sheets. They’re heavy, their sheets, like those from the old times that the women put in their trousseaus.

Bucky blinks, watching as Steve’s muscles, so well-defined, so alien even after all this time, flex and twitch underneath that pale skin he knows so damn well. 

“Mooornin’.” Steve’s arm bends and his palm lands in an annoying pat against Bucky’s cheek. Bucky groans because what the hell.

“You’re such a punk, Rogers,” he whines, shoving him away, and Steve chuckles low and hoarse with sleep.

Some weight eases up from Bucky’s chest. It’s good.

Steve turns on one side, sheets leisurely hugging his half-naked body, and faces Bucky, who is squished against the pillow with his hair stuck against his forehead and jaw in a very unflattering manner. He is not really smiling, but also not really not-smiling, because the dimple on his left side is there like a promise - or a memory. 

“Good morning,” Steve says again.

“I gotcha the first two times. I am a hundred, not deaf.”

Steve scrunches up his nose. “It’s polite to say it back.”

Bucky stares, then raises a hand, twisting the wrist just so, and Steve’s eyelids go down, lazily, waiting for a caress or a stroke or a soft touch. But Bucky smirks and flicks his nose, causing an indignant - and not very dignified - squeak, followed by a short brawl and a fit of laughter. They land on their backs and Steve’s knee is leaning against Bucky’s outer thigh. It’s grounding and deliberate.

“Bad dream?” Steve asks, and he’s looking up towards the ceiling, a neutral expression on his perfect face, even if his jaw is slightly tense.

Bucky exhales from the nose. How could he fool himself into thinking Steve hadn’t noticed? Course he did.

“Yeah,” he says, because it’s useless to lie. Steve knows him too well.

Steve doesn’t react to Bucky’s admission. He just turns his head to look at him, and his cheek leans against the soft expanse of the pillowcase, light pink against white. Bucky imitates him and they look at each other for a while. They listen to each other breathing, to Brooklyn waking up. They take time. It’s something they didn’t have for so long.

“Is it about yesterday night?” Steve asks, and Bucky grimaces because _ah_.

Steve’s knee presses against his thigh.

“I don’t… know.” Bucky wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and Steve follows the movement with his eyes. “It would be pretty messed up if it was.”

“Wanna tell me ‘bout it?”

Bucky winces this time, and Steve doesn’t push with his knee but he stays, close enough to touch. He waits, still like he never was. He was always restless, before the war, during, in the future, working for SHIELD. He could not stay calm, do nothing, wait. And now he does. In everyday life, with Bucky. He stays. And waits. _I have to ask you_ , Bucky whispered, when he came back to Steve, during a totally uneventful day, in a totally uneventful little town in Europe, covered in soot and sweat and months of anguish. _I have to ask you to be patient with me, pal. Or this ain’t gonna work._

“It’s…” Bucky pauses, takes a breath, tries again. “It’s about control.” He measures the words. “Or better said, the lack of it, I guess. My mind keeps going over the brainwashing and tries to rationalize it.” He bites his lip, trying to keep it as plain as possible. Emotionless. So that his heart doesn’t start beating too fast, sending him spiraling into a panic attack. “I was under someone else’s control for such a long time. Then I was suddenly free. It’s… I think it’s difficult to reconcile.”

Steve heaves himself up on an elbow, cheek leaning against his fist, a familiar frown cutting his forehead. Bucky almost smiles in recognition at the focused expression, the way in which the gears in Steve’s brain twist and turn. Examining, strategizing, solving.

“I dream you’re my handler,” Bucky finally confesses, because there’s no easy way to put this. Steve’s expression doesn’t falter. He remains stoic. “Only it doesn’t start like a nightmare. It starts like a dream. A normal day or a normal activity and then… it changes.”

Steve doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t tell him that he didn’t mean to do anything to trigger it. Bucky knows it’s not Steve’s fault. That Steve never does anything that can be mistaken for mistreatment of any kind. And Steve knows that Bucky knows. And Bucky _does_ know, but his brain, that traitor, is always torn between trying to protect him from external threats - since it was prevented from doing it for decades - and twisting even the good things into threats. It’s paranoia, that bitch.

“It’s good until it’s not,” Bucky goes on. “It’s our life and then it’s my old life. When I was…” He shakes his head and his stubble makes a raspy noise against the cotton. 

Steve inhales and Bucky notices the knuckles of his closed fist are white. “When you said it would be messed up if us necking triggered it,” Steve starts. “Is that because I…” His voice breaks. “Is that because in the dream I forced you to have sex?”

He tries to ask it in the most neutral way possible, but Bucky notices the effort he puts into it, how his free hand is clutching the sheets, how his mouth is pressed into a thin line when he stops talking.

“No,” Bucky answers honestly. “But in the dream you are a handler. You control me.” He rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. “I dunno, Steve. I am no shrink, but I think the two things could become sorta mixed up in this scrambled eggs brain of mine.”

Steve pokes him in the shin with his big toe and Bucky grunts.

“Buck,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“We both have a hand on the wheel on this, you know?”

Bucky huffs.

“When you need me to lean my elbow on the windowsill you tell me and I do just that. Leave you the reins.”

Bucky smiles, because only Steve could use such a sappy metaphor and express it as solemnly as an oath on the Bible. There’s a flake of varnish coming out of the upper corner of the ceiling. They’ll have to give it a coat of paint sooner or later.

“You’ve always been a better driver anyway.”

Bucky elbows Steve because _jeez, can he be more cheesy?_ and Steve kicks him in retaliation.

 _It’s good_ , Bucky thinks, breathing out. _They’re good._

***

There’s a crisis every once in a while. Not between them. They are too old and too well oiled a machine, and why does he always sound like innuendo? Maybe it’s the sexual frustration. But there’s a crisis every once in a while, and Steve has to go and save the world. Bucky follows because he likes Steve’s weird bunch just fine, and he liked the Commandos just fine as well - served with some, imprisoned too - but he’d never like someone just fine enough to trust them with Steve’s life. His own, maybe. But never Steve’s.

So Steve leads the Avengers - Avengers of what he never understood but okay - against robots and aliens and crazy scientists and nazis, because nazis never go out of fashion apparently, they just change name. Bucky covers his six. Because fuck nazis.

When they come back home to their brownstone in Brooklyn - what would his ma say about the brownstone in Brooklyn? maybe she would forgive the whole fairy-equals-eternal-damnation thing for a brownstone in Brooklyn - Steve slumps on the couch and presses the ball of his hands against his eyes until he sees stars, and Bucky runs dirty hands through his long hair until he stops. Then Steve says a number - fourteen, thirty-five, seven, one-hundred and eighty-two - and Bucky guides his breathing, pressing Steve’s head against his chest, his ear against his heart and lungs, like when he had an asthma attack.

“I’m glad it’s on me,” Steve says quietly after. “I can take it.”

Bucky knows he can. Steve could always take the deaths on his conscience. Those he couldn’t save, but not for lack of trying. Bucky could always take the deaths on his conscience too. Those he killed for love. He never regrets killing for Steve. And how dangerous is that, uh?

It consumes Steve though, Bucky thinks. The necessity to be the one who organizes everything, who gives the jobs, who plans strategies and directs everyone like a conductor with an orchestra. The responsibility falls heavily on his shoulders because Steve’s heart is too big for his own good, and every failure, every miscalculation, is on him. Most times, Stark questioning him doesn’t help.

Like this time. They’re just back from some godforsaken place in the Midwest where something alien and slimy fell from the sky. And - Bucky learnt - Stark can be pretty touchy-feely regarding openings in the space-time continuum and stuff dropping on Earth. He also thinks he knows that sort of shit better than anyone else since once upon a time he stuck a nuke through a hole just like that. Bucky had to bite back a lot of bad jokes during the fight.

“He should do it if he’s so good at it,” Steve bursts out, hurling the shield into a corner. It lands against a godawful Asgardian vase with a satisfying clang. “Take some fucking responsibility every once in a while.”

Bucky rests his arms on the back of the couch, still in his tac gear. His back bends comfortably around the cushions, his neck leaning against the top of it the way it should be. The sofa was a bargain, that’s for sure. There’s something prodding fastidiously against his lower back, probably the corner of the TV remote. He looks up. Yeah, they definitely have to repaint. He doesn’t like the look of the markings around the chandelier. “Then let him,” he says quietly, and closes his eyes when Steve stops his pacing.

There’s silence.

Bucky exhales and opens an eye. He may have broken Steve.

“You think really loudly,” Bucky says.

“You stink really badly,” Steve shoots back, absent-mindedly.

Bucky smirks. It’s an old game. As old as their friendship.

The seat beside him dips, and Steve’s nape nestles against Bucky’s outstretched arm. They are disgusting; covered in soot and sweat and dirt and they’re probably ruining the best couch in the history of couches.

“It wasn’t a very original idea, Steve. I have not revealed to you the secrets of the universe,” Bucky tries after a few seconds of ominous silence from the other side.

Steve rolls his eyes and nudges him, then notices the TV remote pressing uncomfortably against Bucky’s lower back and removes it without a word. He’s still thinking, brows furrowed and mouth curled pensively. Bucky bends his arm and his fingers intertwine in Steve’s dark blonde locks. They are getting longer. The gossip magazines already started opening yay or nay polls. Bucky brushes them off Steve’s forehead like he used to do with his bangs in the 30s. _Just a little dab’ll do ya!_ he used to song-sing, parroting the Brylcreem commercial as Steve tried to squirm away like an eel from his slimy hold.

“Go take a shower,” Steve mumbles, eyelids half closed.

Bucky groans, then heaves himself up. His knees wobble. He is too old for this shit. “I’m using up all the hot water,” he promises, half-heartedly.

“It don’t run out,” Steve drolls his Brooklyn all over the place.

“Damn future.”

***

Bucky is engrossed in a guilty pleasure teen novel in which an implausibly young Oxford scholar bangs a vampire when Steve drops his considerable weight on his side of the bed, arms wrapped around a tote bag.

Bucky turns the page.

Steve shimmies and the bed creaks, and Bucky rolls his eyes, slipping a finger between the pages and looking up. “What?”

“So I was thinkin’...”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpans. “Very original too.”

Bucky raises his book eloquently. “Do you have something to say, doll? Because if not, I’m busy.”

Steve huffs and puffs. “Shut up and listen,” he grumbles, turning around and crossing his legs so that the tote bag is nestled in his lap. “I was thinkin’ about the past several weeks,” he says, all business, like he used to when he tried to canvass Bucky’s support for some lost cause. “And I was thinkin’ about our... problems.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. So this is a real serious conversation. “Our problems,” he repeats, emotionless.

“Control problems.”

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.

“Steve- ”

“No, let me finish.” He says it quietly, without blushing, without stammering. “I do have problems letting go. Delegating.” He pauses. “It comes from afar, I guess, when having things under control was the only way I could think of to assert myself.” 

Bucky tosses his book on the nightstand. This is new.

“To make sure I was being listened to.” Steve starts fiddling with the handles of the totebag. “And in the war, I was CO and I made all the decisions.”

“You consulted with us before,” Bucky says softly.

“Yeah,” Steve allows. “But more times than less I did things my way.”

Bucky nods, because yeah, that’s the truth. And most times Steve’s plan worked out, but sometimes it didn’t. 

“And I keep doin’ it, and when you told me to let Tony do things his way some time ago… I really started thinking ‘bout it.” He looks down, then up again, locking eyes with Bucky.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet,” he goes on, heart on his sleeve, and Bucky is terrified that Steve could take so seriously a stupid comment Bucky made while he was half dead with tiredness on a sofa after fighting robots or whatever it was that time, he cannot even remember. 

“Steve, I didn’t mean…”

“No, really.” Steve licks his lips. “I know you didn’t mean for it to become this big philosophical thing, but it got me thinkin’,” he shrugs. “I ain’t ready to let Stark or anyone else take hold of my team.” He nibbles at his lower lip. “But I think I have to start somewhere with the control thing, because… because it’s a lot to take, sometimes.” 

Bucky shakes his head and a rush of affection runs through him. He knows this is probably one of the hardest things to admit for Steve; saying that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t have to control everything that happens. Bucky’s metal hand reaches out and squeezes Steve’s naked ankle. Steve’s smile is a bit strained, but sincere. 

“All that thinkin’ wore you out, huh?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not finished.”

“Oh boy.”

Steve takes Bucky’s metal hand in both of his and turns it palm up, fingers brushing gently over the seams. The arm purrs softly, plates recalibrating, like a cat stretching its back. Bucky shivers.

“Before the Battle of New York, when Coulson died, Tony was wrecked. I asked him if it was the first time he lost a soldier.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and Steve cringes. “I know, I know. It was shitty of me, but I…” He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, choosing his words carefully. “I was in a bad place, Buck. I had just been thrown seventy years into the future, and everyone had moved on from things that were just… the other day for me. And everyone expected me to be someone. Cap. The idea they had of Captain America. So I tried to fit those shoes.”

Bucky curls his fingers around Steve’s and holds on.

“I know what it means to bear the responsibility for things, and I cannot… think about giving that away to someone who would be crushed by it.”

“So it’s better if you are?” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound bitter, but he knows he comes off a bit caustic and he guesses he deserves Steve’s unimpressed look.

Jesus Christ, what did he do to deserve such a self-sacrificing idiot? 

Steve glares, and Bucky sighs and wraps his flesh arm around Steve’s neck, unbalancing him and dragging him ungracefully against his chest. Steve makes a noise of protest and Bucky shushes him, and it’s all so familiar it’s almost painful. There’s a moment of awkward struggling with limbs too big to fit, but Steve finally curls around Bucky’s side like a clam. The young adult drama is retrieved and Bucky starts reading again, nose buried in blonde locks.

“I have more to say,” Steve protests, after a while, as an afterthought.

His totebag has fallen off the bed and is lying on the floor.

“You always have more to say,” Bucky grumbles. “Let me read my fucking book.”

***

Steve’s kissing him and Bucky’s melting. Steve tastes like cupcake frosting, and there’s still a smile on his lips, a dimple on his cheek, and the ghost of a laugh in the accelerated heaving of his chest. There are crumbs in the bed, the TV is on a cheesy romance from the 1990s, and Bucky’s flesh hand is curled around Steve’s shoulder. 

It’s exceptionally relaxed. It’s a good night.

Steve kisses Bucky’s jawline and the underside of his chin, and his breath caresses the tender skin there when he brushes the dip underneath Bucky’s lower lip with the tip of his nose, before hurrying back to kiss the cleft and to nibble at his mouth.

Bucky’s hips shift and Steve groans, grinding against his thigh, fumbling a bit with the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt. His big, artist hand wiggles its way underneath the soft cotton, caressing Bucky’s belly, his thumb pressing against his ribs, running up and up and up until it circles Bucky’s left nipple. Bucky moans because _Jesus, fuck_ , his hand clenching on Steve’s shoulder.

“Take this thing off,” he mumbles grumpily, and Steve happily obliges, tossing his pajama top somewhere in the room. 

_He looks good_ , Bucky thinks dumbly, eyes roaming over Steve’s wide chest, perky nipples, and that sculpted abdomen that is out of this world. He remembers being dumbstruck the first time he saw Steve in his new body. This whole new person. Dumbstruck and terrified.

Bucky blinks lazily and wets his lip, and that must do something to Steve, because he leans forward, kissing him breathless, slowly, leaning on his elbow, his right hand reprising its lazy wanderings underneath Bucky’s shirt, up and down, from the hem of his sweatpants to the scars mapping his left side.

Steve’s skin is scorching underneath Bucky’s hands, the muscles of his back hard and definite like a statue. Bucky thinks about marble sculptures hidden in Southern France in a summer as hot as Steve’s bare shoulders; the powerful, milk-colored bodies, so perfect and so human at the same time. 

Bucky’s mouth opens in a noiseless moan as Steve’s hand travels south, underneath his sweatpants and his briefs, fingers curling around his length as they start to move rhythmically in precise strokes. 

“Steve,” he hears himself whisper, and Steve’s pushing his tongue into his mouth, sucking on his lower lip, and Bucky fucks into the tight grip around his cock like his life depends on it.

Steve lets him, tightening his hold when Bucky grabs at his wrist, biting the soft skin behind Steve’s ear, sucking a mark there just because he can. Steve breathes hard against his neck, licking the sweat from his skin, doubling his efforts in jerking Bucky off with an urgency that seems unnecessary in a moment where they could take all the time in the world. It’s an urgency that comes from back alleys and shared tenements and muddy foxholes. Bucky comes with his eyes shut closed and his teeth leaving an impression against Steve’s collarbone. His cock twitches in Steve’s hold until it softens, spent.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, eloquently, eyes still closed, as Steve wipes his hand on the sheets and kisses Bucky’s temple with a reverence that is almost moving. “Gimme a second and ‘ll return the favor,” he slurs.

Steve hums against his hair, nose buried in his sweaty locks, breathing deep breaths, as if he wants to take in Bucky’s smell for keeps. When Bucky feels the haze of his orgasm dim slightly, he makes a move to push Steve on his back, but Steve shakes his head.

“What?” Bucky asks, brows furrowing.

“I wanna try somethin’, if you’re willing to,” Steve says, blush spreading from his ears down his chest.

Bucky blinks. It’s very distracting.

Steve clears his throat. “Remember what I said about letting go?”

Bucky’s eyes fall on the book on Steve’s nightstand, and the conversation from a couple weeks prior comes back through the mess of endorphins. “Uh,” he waxes poetic.

“And…” Steve’s hand curls around Bucky’s left hip, his thumb hooking in the hem of his ruined sweatpants. “Today’s a good day, ain’t it?”

Bucky nods cautiously.

“I think we can work on the bad ones, maybe. For us both.”

Steve’s voice doesn’t falter, but there’s an interrogative edge to it, as if he’s not sure he wants to ruin the moment by bringing up the bad stuff. Bucky exhales, air flowing through his nose forcefully. The bad stuff’s always there, so Steve blabbering unsexy shit is not really an issue. Well, not… much.

“Let me get this straight.”

Steve’s lips quiver in mirth and Bucky kicks him.

“You want to work on your control-freak thing and my fear-of-being-controlled trauma through sex?”

Steve’s flush doesn’t arrest its spread, but he holds Bucky’s stare like a poker face champ. Well, Steve _is_ a poker face champ. He always played them all under the table at cards, after all.

Bucky sighs, abandoning himself against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, you are weird, pal.”

Steve hits him with a soft punch against his good arm and Bucky chuckles. “Alright,” he says in the end, turning on one side to face him. “Spit it out, you kinky bastard.”

He tries to play it cool because Steve is embarrassed and maybe a little afraid of spooking him out. That much is clear. But his heart is banging in his chest and he knows Steve can hear it like he would hear war drums on the horizon. He knows Steve would never do anything to put him into an uncomfortable position. He knows it. But fear is irrational.

Steve presses his lips between his teeth, then nods. “I want you to fuck me,” he announces, blunt and direct, blue eyes burning, and Bucky’s breath gets strangled in his throat because Steve never _asked_ before. It happened from time to time, in the past, but not that frequently, because fucking is time consuming and a blowjob or jerking off definitely come in handy more when you’re always risking getting walked in on but do the trick anyway. In the present, well… the other way round had been pretty common until it wasn’t.

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly, the words coming out a bit stifled. “We did that before.”

“I want you to tie me up.”

Bucky chokes. Suddenly, he’s very glad Steve jacked him off before breaking the news.

“I got supplies.”

“You got supplies,” Bucky repeats.

Steve nods, still very serious, still very matter-of-factly, as if he just communicated to Colonel Phillips he stocked the right amount of rations for an upcoming mission, covering all options in the chance that shit went FUBAR.

“I had to...” Steve hesitates. “Make sure they were okay for us, you know?”

Bucky’s mouth suddenly feels like ash. “Please, don’t tell me you went to Tony Stark to fabricate some special vibranium rope to tie you up.”

Steve looks at him in horror, opening and closing his mouth like a fish in a bowl. “No! Are you crazy?!” He flushes a deep cherry red. “I went to an appropriate shop,” he says, with choir-boy composure, and Bucky’s brain short circuits at the oxymoron of associating the world ‘appropriate’ with that kind of shop. If someone attached a cable to his mother’s grave at this precise moment, he’s pretty sure they could fix New York’s electric supply for the year.

“Captain America went to a sex shop,” Bucky says, and cringes when he notices that saying it out loud does not fix the absurdity of it.

Steve is, at this point, the color of a ripe tomato. “I was undercover.”

“Steve, your idea of ‘undercover’ is a baseball cap and sunglasses,” Bucky answers, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Steve mumbles something about no photos in the tabloids, and Bucky prays that the reason behind it is not some poor underpaid Stark Industries intern doing the dirty PR work for Pepper Potts, but rather just sheer dumb luck. 

At least this is not giving him anxiety. A heart-attack, maybe.

“So,” Bucky says after a second. “You found super soldier appropriate ropes for sex in a Brooklyn sex shop.”

“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” Steve mumbles and reaches out under the bed. The tote bag he had in his hands some time ago falls in Bucky’s lap. “I want you to tie me up and fuck me, and I want you to feel in control. I don’t want to think about anything except how much I want to be fucked by you.”

Steve says it all with a completely straight face, as if he were delivering one of those educational videos that made Bucky laugh until tears sprang out.

Bucky doesn’t know if he’s more shocked or moved or turned on. So he does the only thing he can do except for trying to answer that. He licks his lips and opens the bag. 

There’s condoms inside, and lube and dark, silky ropes that look shiny and potentially deadly, like snakes. Bucky runs a thumb over the items and bites the inside of his mouth. He had been restrained, of course. Hell, he most definitely spent more time restrained than free in his life, and isn’t that a cheery thought? But his restraints were leather and metal, and cut his skin like a knife cuts butter. They were made to hurt. These ropes are silk and soft material - cotton, maybe? - and won’t leave his arms covered in blisters. They won’t wound Steve either.

“If you’re not okay with it,” Steve adds, more carefully. “You tell me.” He reaches out, a strong hand wrapping around Bucky’s calf.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “What if I lose it?” he asks, point-blank. “What if I hurt you? What if I think you are a handler at my mercy and I gut you?”

Steve smiles softly, his dimple showing on his cheek. “You won’t,” he answers, simply. “Because I trust you.”

Bucky looks at him, grimacing. “That’s not enough.”

“Buck.” Steve hooks his palm behind Bucky’s knee and drags him closer. “I don’t think you’ll snap while we’re having kinky sex.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“But I am,” Steve replies, earnestly. “I trust you completely,” he goes on. “And I would never… I could never do something like this with anyone else.” He raises a hand before Bucky can stop him. “And I don’t mean it in a sexual way.” He pauses. “Well, that too. But what I mean is… I could never give control - any kind of control - to anyone else. So this… could be good for me. And… and maybe it could be good for you too.” He shrugs. “You could never control a handler. So I cannot be your handler.”

The logic behind it sounds eerily simple. Bucky is pretty sure psychology is much more complicated than that. He takes a deep breath and leans forward, grasping Steve by the back of his neck and pressing their lips together in a firm kiss. “You are a reckless punk,” he says, forehead knocking against Steve’s.

“You’ve known that for a century or so.”

Bucky kisses him again, slower, taking his time. “You want to do this because you want it though, right?” he asks, quietly. “Not just for fixing up my shit or yours.”

Steve cups his cheeks. “Yeah, Buck. I want to,” he whispers, before pecking his lips and his eyelids and his cheekbones and his forehead, and when he brushes his nose against Bucky’s, Bucky scrunches it, and Steve chuckles, low in his belly.

They take it slow, for the first time in forever. The TV turned itself off at some point during their strange conversation, so there’s no background noise around them except the occasional car passing by or dog barking. Steve takes Bucky’s shirt off, peppering his chest with kisses and following the lines of his abdomen with the tip of his tongue. It’s smooth and languid and unhurried, and Bucky takes his time in touching Steve wherever he can reach, tickling him behind his knees and running his fingers along Steve’s thighs as he undresses him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he mumbles, lips brushing against the crease of his thigh. Steve pants, and Bucky presses his hand against Steve’s knee so as to have better access. He mouths at the base of Steve’s cock, his own hips grinding against the bed, taking pleasure in doing something perceived as forbidden.

Handjobs were looked over, sometimes, in their time; pal being pals, that kind of thing, helpin’ out a friend. When Bucky and the boys in his YMCA team went out of town for boxing matches, there was always someone jerking off someone else in the dark of the shared bedrooms or in the showers or whatever. It let off some steam. But sucking cock was another thing altogether. Sucking cock was being a fairy. A big fat fag. Sucking cock was kneeling in a dark alley by the Navy Yard and doing your patriotic queer duty for white dressed sailors. It wasn’t overlooked, it wasn’t justified. It was just that, plain as day.

And boy did Bucky like it. 

He always thoroughly enjoyed doing it for Steve, to Steve, since the first moment they’d started fooling around as inexperienced kids, unsure of what they were doing, how they were doing it; fumbling with their flies in the Barnes’ dusty attic or under the secluded piers in Coney Island when they were supposed to be elsewhere - at school, usually. Bucky remembers the first time he tried it, hands pressed against one of the poles sinking into the sand, his knees wet with salty water and his face buried in Steve’s lap, seagulls screeching and his best friend grunting above him, one hand tugging Bucky’s curls, sticky with pomade.

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve moans, now, in the twenty-first century, worked up and skittish like a century ago, as Bucky takes him in his mouth, his flesh hand covering where he cannot reach.

 _This is familiar_ , Bucky thinks. _Taking Steve apart like this._ He hollows his cheeks and bobs his head up and down, lips brushing his own fingers. His metal hand slowly massages Steve’s left thigh, his thumb digging into the tense muscle; the biceps and the iliotibial tract and the regular, accelerated pumping of Steve’s blood in the femoral artery. Steve’s breath is labored, his chest moving quickly, Bucky’s name on his lips every time he takes in air.

“Buck, I can’t…” Steve gasps, his hands fisting the sheets as they used to fist his hair, and Bucky suddenly pulls off, leaving him a whining mess on the mattress.

“Turn around,” Bucky urges, gruffly, wiping his chin on the back of his hand.

Steve closes his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply, his chest expanding, his abdomen contracting as he hoists himself up and turns on his side, and then over, backbone bending deliciously as he leans on his elbows, his legs relaxed, long and luscious. Bucky runs his hands along the back of his thighs, palm open like a masseur, pressing on every tense knot. He cups Steve’s ass, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh and Steve groans, head slumping between his shoulders.

Steve doesn’t move a muscle when Bucky fumbles with the handles of the tote bag, taking out the soft, silky ropes and the snazzy bottle of lube. It’s still weird, realizing that nowadays they explicitly produce lube for… well, sex. It’s a gift from God, honestly, but it still feels forbidden in a way; something to hide, to be embarrassed about. Bucky shakes his head as he leans forward to kiss Steve’s shoulder, taking in the strong scent of sweat and clean skin. 

“Hey,” he whispers, brushing Steve’s neck with the tip of his nose.

“Hey, Buck.” Steve smiles and tilts his head, eyeing one of the ropes Bucky’s twisting in his metal hand, a genuinely intrigued expression coloring his features.

A rush of adrenaline runs down Bucky’s spine, making him dizzy with arousal. He straddles Steve’s hips, pressing his chest against Steve’s back and curling one arm around his massive shoulders. He covers him like a heavy blanket, chin hooked between Steve’s neck and his collarbone. Steve groans, deep in the back of his throat, a breathy ‘yes’ slipping out of his lips as Bucky grinds his hips just so against the small of his back.

The slick black of the rope wraps around Steve’s wrist like a vine, one turn, then two, and then Bucky leans over, hoisting himself onto his knees to reach the right corner of the bed, twisting the fabric into a complicated knot.

“Fuck,” Steve curses, tugging hesitantly.

Bucky’s metal fingers curl around Steve’s left wrist, crossing it over the right one, now limp against the mattress. The rope is tight against Steve’s flesh, but not tight enough to leave a mark. Steve’s skin is as white as the moon, a stark contrast against the black of the restraints.

“Looks good,” Steve says, voice hoarse and rough with arousal, goosebumps running over his skin.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, weakly, incapable of averting his gaze from Steve’s crossed wrists, the rope tensing with every movement. “Give it a test,” he hears himself say, heaving himself up to give Steve more room to move and sitting back on his heels.

And Steve does.

He twists his wrists and the ropes slip effortlessly in his palms, dark and tense like whips against the soft skin. And then Steve tightens his grip around them and his muscles flex in the effort to _pull_ . The bedframe groans and Bucky feels his knees become jelly - he’s lucky he’s sitting. The muscles of Steve’s back contract, and Bucky wants to dig his teeth into the strong flesh, to press his nose into the clefts and dimples between the trapezius and the scapulae and run his thumbs down his spine to mark every vertebra. Steve’s deltoids shift and his biceps tense, and Bucky cannot resist the urge to grab at those arms, hooking his hands into the soft flesh of his inner elbows, dragging them back, pressing Steve against the mattress, ropes stretching, and his hips pinning him _right there_.

“I’m not finished, pal,” Bucky pants, lips pressing against the back of Steve’s neck, dry and quick. 

Steve shifts, legs bending, but Bucky turns around, and he is suddenly grateful for the fact that they didn’t choose one of those modern futons with no frame. Who would have thought that a good ol’ wooden bed with a footboard and everything would come in handy in this particular way? 

“You still okay with this?” Bucky asks, squeezing Steve’s calf and massaging slowly from his knee to his ankle. 

“God, yes, Bucky, yes.”

Bucky can’t see Steve’s expression, but he knows every hint, every undertone in his voice. Bucky’s heart hammers in his chest at the confirmation, and he proceeds to tie Steve’s ankles to the bedposts with swift, precise movements. 

When it’s done, he turns around and Steve’s looking at him over his shoulder, his strong limbs displayed like a fucking Christmas present over the heavy sheets. Bucky feels his mouth go dry. He’s positive it’s one of the most sinful things he’s ever witnessed in his life.

“Now what?” he blurts out, nerves catching up with him, and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Dunno, Buck,” he shrugs. “A round of cards?”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then Bucky snorts and Steve loses it, and suddenly they’re both laughing their heads off in a very unsexy manner, and Jesus, how could Bucky ever have been afraid of this? He knows how he could; he knows that it’s still there, that fear, gnawing at his subconscious like a feral dog, but not today, not now. 

He leans over and kisses Steve’s scapula, a smile still on his lips. “You are a punk,” he mumbles, following the moles on his skin with the tip of his nose.

“Jerk,” Steve answers back, not missing a beat because that’s what they do.

_I love you. I love you, too._

“You okay?” Steve asks, making sure, hips shifting underneath him, and Bucky bites back a moan, digging his teeth into Steve’s shoulder.

“Never better,” he mumbles, running his tongue over the already fading mark.

Steve groans in appreciation and Bucky gets to work. He starts with touching, small pressures of his fingertips against milk skin, brief pecks of lips, nibbles, soft blows of hot air that cause goosebumps. Steve squirms underneath him, muscles tensing and relaxing at every pull of the ropes, breath hitching when he realizes he cannot move, he cannot flip Bucky over and get his revenge for every touch, every kiss, every bite, every breath that is everything and not enough at the same time.

“You’re gorgeous,” Bucky murmurs again against the back of Steve’s thighs, his hands grasping Steve’s hips so that he cannot grind against the sheets, looking for relief. 

“Fuck me,” Steve whimpers. “Please, Bucky, please.”

The lube is sticky against his fingers, he thinks absentmindedly as he rubs it between thumb and pointer to warm it up. He remembers getting by with much worse than this fancy shit, once upon a time, but fuck him if he would go back. He likes the idea that this gooey, viscous thing was made especially for this; to make it good, to avoid the burn of it, the soreness and discomfort. He kisses the dimples in the small of Steve’s back as he pushes one finger in, his left hand sneaking between Steve’s hips and the mattress, cupping his balls and smirking at the hiss that Steve makes at the double stimulation.

“You’re a fucking jerk,” Steve groans, strangled and wonderful, and Bucky opens him up slowly, taking his time, and ignoring Steve’s protests and his requests of _faster I’m ready Buck come on I can take it._

“I’m the one calling the shots here, pal,” Bucky growls, three fingers in knuckle deep, his left hand jacking Steve off with practiced ease. “You come first, then we can talk about fucking.”

Steve wails, the ropes stretching and the bedframe groaning its displeasure, and Bucky curls his fingers just so, thinking _fuck it, who cares if he breakes the fucking bed if I can see him like this_. When he finds Steve’s prostate, Steve shouts profanities and all of his muscles contract, tense in a display of power that makes Bucky feel lightheaded.

“Right there, yes, Bucky, yes,” Steve growls, attempting to bend his knees and failing, and Bucky rams his fingers against the same spot over and over, and before he can realize it, Steve is coming, warm against his metal hand, making a mess of the sheets underneath him. Bucky guides him through it, gathering all his self-control to avoid shamelessly rutting against Steve’s leg and finding an undignified release.

Steve slumps, his forehead leaning heavy against his crossed arms, his back beaded in sweat. Bucky counts up to ten, then hoists himself up, kneeling between Steve’s spread legs, wiping his fingers against the ruined sheets.

“You alrite?” Bucky pants, thumb digging into the meat of Steve’s left thigh, and all he gets is something unintelligible in response. “Use your words, Rogers.”

“B minus,” comes the muffled response from the general direction of Steve’s face.

Bucky is stunned in outrage, _that little shit_ , then Steve starts sniggering and Bucky punches his shoulder, collapsing onto the side, an inevitable smirk on his lips. Steve turns his head towards him, cheek pressing against his bound wrists, and there’s something mischievous in his eyes, as if he’s daring Bucky to do something.

“I’ll give you B minus,” Bucky grumbles and pinches his hip. Steve writhes, the bedpost protesting weakly.

“Will ya?” Steve drawls, a lazy smile spreading.

Bucky kisses him, long and dirty, a lot of tongue, a lot of spit, and a lot of promise, despite the uncomfortable position. His right hand cups Steve’s asscheek, thumb slipping into the cleft, and Steve moans into the kiss, hot and sensitive.

“You okay with this?” Bucky asks, testing the waters, not wanting to overwhelm him.

“Yeah, Buck. Definitely okay.”

Bucky nods, kissing him again, slow and easy, and he moves back carefully behind him, knees parting Steve’s legs even more, hands roaming over Steve’s back, digging in, massaging his sore muscles and unknotting the residual tension from his spine. Steve grunts and moans, and by the time Bucky finishes pressing his fingertips into the soft spot underneath his feet, he’s lazily grinding his hips against the wet sheets and Bucky’s cock is fucking leaking. Steve’s still open and sensitive, and he whines softly, hips shifting, when Bucky pushes in two fingers and scissors them, just to be sure. 

“Are you planning to take all day?” Steve grumbles, and Bucky ignores him in favor of squirting a decent amount of lube onto his palm, then spreading it over his dick with swift strokes. He knows that Steve can hear the soft, methodical slapping.

“You want me to put on a rubber?” Bucky asks gruffly, stopping his ministrations, his metal fingers drawing imaginary circles onto the soft skin of Steve thighs, smiling softly when goosebumps raise at his touch. He seems unable to stop touching Steve.

“That’s a dumb question. Have you seen the bed? Wouldn’t make much difference at this point.”

Bucky pinches him and Steve squeals. “Maybe you don’t want your ass to look like the bed.”

Steve presses his forehead against his knuckles. “Oh, I very much want that.”

Bucky has to concentrate very fuckin’ hard to avoid coming right there.

Steve’s not as feisty when Bucky pushes in. His breath hitches in the back of his throat and his muscles contract as Bucky presses long, wet kisses against his nape, murmuring at his ear how good he’s doing and how hot and tight he feels and… and… Bucky loses track of his thoughts because Steve’s hips start pushing back, thrust after thrust, and Bucky hooks the top of his feet behind Steve’s ankles and the angle changes, making him sink in deeply.

The bed frame creaks like a haunted house as Steve tugs on the restraints, back bent and hips tilted up, and Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulders, covering him completely like he never dared when Steve was a hundred pounds soaking wet. Bucky never wanted to break him. He didn’t want to make Steve feel like he had to be... on the receiving side just because he was skinny, but fuck, they should have done this a long time ago because it feels fan-fuckin’-tastic.

Bucky digs his knees deeper into the bed and pounds into Steve with abandon, pressing him against the mattress, encouraged by Steve’s moans, his gasps, the way in which he pushes back.

“Yeah, Buck, just like that, fuck.”

Bucky bites Steve’s shoulder, the bruises dark red against his milky skin and will be gone by morning. “You’re doin’ so good, Stevie, so good for me.”

His left arm slips underneath Steve’s armpit, going for his bound hands, to hold onto him, to press his palm against Steve’s, but Steve turns his head abruptly and looks at Bucky over his shoulder and Bucky stops, hand hovering a few inches from Steve’s cheek. It seems to last a century, but it must be just the blink of an eye. And then, very deliberately, as Bucky’s hips snap against his with gusto and the slapping sound echoes throughout the silent room, Steve wraps his lips - red and swollen and scorching - around two of Bucky’s metal fingers. He sucks on them like a starving man, spit drooling on Bucky’s knuckles and the dip between his phalanges, and Bucky’s brain short-circuits. The orgasm hits him like a freight train, and Bucky fucking knows all about freight trains, so there’s that. 

It is so unexpected that he almost blanks. Or maybe he does.

When he opens his eyes, Steve is still grinding against the mattress, his mouth peppering Bucky’s flesh arm with kisses. Bucky presses his forehead against the sweaty back of Steve’s neck.

“Gimme a sec,” he murmurs, trying to communicate to his brain that it should send some kind of nervous signal to his legs to order them to move. They are fucking shaking, spasms running up and down like after running a marathon.

“I’m good,” Steve smirks lazily against his wrist, right over his pulse-point, teeth nipping at the protruding bones, and Bucky groans, easing himself out carefully. Steve hisses slightly at the feeling, and Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s blond hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“Up,” he murmurs, patting Steve’s hip, and Steve obeys as much as his restraints allow him. 

It’s enough for Bucky to wrap a hand around Steve’s cock, jerking him off at a leisurely pace, his lips lazily sucking marks against Steve’s upper back. It doesn’t take long - not with the way Steve has been on edge and oversensitive since Bucky pushed inside him, and when he comes he coats Bucky’s hand, adding to the mess on the bed. 

They are so fucked out, it takes them a while before they are able to form coherent sentences.

“Care to untie me?” Steve finally murmurs sleepily.

“Dunno,” Bucky answers, his foot going up and down Steve’s calf. “It’s quite the pretty picture.” His cock gives an interested twitch as Bucky’s eyes linger on Steve’s ass. “I could keep you like this to have my nasty way with you anytime I want.”

“You can already have your nasty way with me anytime you want.”

Bucky shrugs. “Fair point. Got a knife?”

Steve glares. “Untie me, Bucky. No knives. I paid good money for this shit.”

Bucky smirks, making a show of heaving himself up and walking on his knees towards the footboard. He takes his time, massaging Steve’s ankles, one first, then the other.

“Why? You planning on using them again?” he asks, trying not to get distracted when Steve bends his knees, hoisting himself up on all fours and then sitting on his heels, arms still bound in front of him.

“Who knows?” Steve turns, looking over his shoulder like a pinup, his spine curled up into a sinuous arch. “Never say never.”

Bucky punches his shoulder, jaw tight. “You are a fucking menace,” he grumbles, taking Steve’s hands and putting them in his lap to unlace the restraints.

As soon as he’s free, Steve raises them and cups Bucky’s face, kissing him full on the mouth. “Hi.”

Bucky shakes his head, curling his hands around Steve’s reddened wrists. “Hi,” he answers back.

“How do you feel?”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. “Gross.”

Steve’s smile widens. “We should shower,” he declares, but doesn’t make a move to get off the bed and into the bathroom.

“How do _you_ feel?” Bucky asks, pressing his thumbs against Steve’s pulse-points, feeling his own heart get in tune with Steve’s.

Steve smirks.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“It was thrilling,” Steve starts, his forehead furrowing slightly as he looks for the right words. “I… I worried that I might feel trapped, or worse, frustrated because I couldn’t get things my way.”

“How is ‘frustrated’ worse than ‘trapped’?”

Steve ignores him.

“But you know me.” Steve says it so casually and yet so meaningfully; so fervently that Bucky feels something break and get stitched up back together with gold.

_You know me._

That’s the first thing Steve told him in this century, while the world was burning. It’s the truest thing he knows. There’s no dream, no nightmare, no memory, no fucking conditioning that can take that from him. 

Bucky lets out a shaky breath, then leans forward, forehead pressing against Steve’s. “I know you’re a punk,” he grumbles.

Steve chuckles and wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, squishing their bodies together. “Yeah, that’s enough.” He presses his lips against Bucky’s temple and takes a deep breath. “It’s enough.”


End file.
